In every sense, he was a most eligible person. He was handsome, distinguished-looking and charming, with the perfect manners of the young diplomatist. And one day, and it could not be a very long one now, he would be a rich man by the death of Lady Henrietta.
For many months, Guy Rossett went to the flat in Mount Street, losing a considerable sum of money at bridge to his hostess and various members of her circle.
There was a certain strain of caution in him, a certain recognition of the fact that he would require to know a good deal more than he did about the charming widow’s past, before he committed himself definitely, that kept the sense of attraction on his side within reasonable bounds.
Still, there is no knowing what might have happened, but for the occurrence of a certain event. Mrs Hargrave was very charming, very subtle, equipped with all the wiles of a clever and experienced woman. One day, his self-control might have given way, her fascination might have overpowered his prudence, and he would have committed himself beyond recall.
Then something happened which switched away his thoughts for ever from the flat in Mount Street and its fascinating owner. At a certain country house he met Isobel Clandon, the daughter of a retired general, a widower who lived at Eastbourne.
He took her in to dinner the first night of his arrival, and he knew he had found the woman of his dreams. Isobel was a lovely girl of twenty-two, a little above the middle height, a vision of beauty and grace.
Her fresh and virginal charm, her spontaneous gaiety, drove out all recollection of the more artificial attractions of the older woman. The one suggested the brightness and freshness of spring, the other fading tints of summer.
It was love at first sight on both sides, and Guy knew that he had never really loved before. And Isobel had not even flirted with a man before she saw him. She came to him whole-hearted, and he came as little scarred as a man might be who has lived twenty-seven years in the world, and seen and known many women.
Mrs Hargrave roused herself from her reverie, and took up the letter for the second time. It was from an intimate acquaintance, and the envelope bore the Eastbourne post-mark. Again she read that particular paragraph which had so perturbed her.
“I have at last succeeded in meeting your Miss Clandon at a garden-party. I made myself as pleasant as I could, and you know I can make myself pretty well liked when I try. I think she has taken a fancy to me, and that we shall be great friends presently. I am going to tea with her to-morrow, and will let you know if I can get anything definite out of her.
“She is twenty-two, and certainly a lovely girl, also a very charming one. I introduced Mr Rossett’s name, of course, and she just looked a little shy. But I could not get her to say much, only this, that he is coming down to Eastbourne directly, and that he has just secured an important appointment abroad, at the British Embassy in Spain.
“She wears no engagement ring, so they are not publicly betrothed. But I am sure there is a very good understanding between them.”
The widow threw the letter down on her lap, with a fierce exclamation.
“Twenty-two, and a lovely girl,” she muttered angrily. “Some pink and white beauty, I suppose, immature, knowing nothing of life. And these are the women who catch men of the world with their youth and innocence.”
Her face grew hard, she looked almost plain, and for the moment her thirty years showed themselves unmistakably.
She tore the offending note into fragments, and threw them into a dainty little waste-paper basket – everything about the flat was dainty.
“But I will get even with Mr Guy Rossett before long,” she cried vindictively, as she returned to her seat.
It was somewhere about ten o’clock in the morning when she indulged in these bitter reflections, when she had to admit, in the face of that letter, that her ambitious schemes had gone astray.
At the same hour, a tall and corpulent gentleman, attired in an elegant morning coat and silk hat, descended the steps of his house at Walton, stepped into the Rolls-Royce car waiting for him, drove to the station, and took the train to London.
He was known in his business, and in the neighbourhood, as Mr Jackson, although his foreign appearance and swarthy complexion gave the direct lie to his English name.
Not for him the easy bowler or soft hat, and the lounge suit. He had an idea that to be successful in business it was necessary to preserve the old traditions. Financial stability was suggested by the frock coat and the topper.
He described himself as a financier, and so in a certain sense he was. But in spite of the name of Jackson, he was a Spaniard by birth, and his real cognomen was Juan Jaques. As regards his business, he was a moneylender, pure and simple.
He had a spacious suite of offices in one of the most private-looking houses in Dover Street. His staff was small, consisting of a confidential woman secretary who typed his letters, generally suave, but occasionally menacing; an equally confidential clerk who kept his accounts; and a smart office boy.
From this agreeable point of vantage, he accommodated young men of good family, and equally good prospects, when they were temporarily hard up. He had a very select clientèle, and, to do him justice, for a moneylender, he was not extortionate. “Treat your clients fairly, and they will come again. You make regular customers of them. They don’t go buzzing off to Tom, Dick, and Harry.” These were the principles on which he conducted his very lucrative business.
He was in a very good humour this morning, as he got out of the taxi which had brought him from Waterloo to his office.
There were very few letters, but their contents pleased him; they suggested good business. The last one was from Guy Rossett, who intimated that he would call about twelve o’clock, as he wanted to have a short chat.
The astute Spaniard, known to all but a very few as the naturalised Englishman, Jackson, smiled.
He had not enjoyed the pleasure of Guy’s acquaintance very long. Mrs Hargrave had brought the two men together, and the introduction had been effected through the following circumstances.
At a certain period, Guy had found himself very short of money, practically due to bridge losses at the flat in Mount Street. He had rather hesitatingly asked the charming widow if she knew of any decent moneylender, who would finance him at a rate of interest that was not too extortionate.
Violet had raised her candid blue eyes – they were her best asset – to his, with a world of pity in them.
“Oh, Mr Rossett, I am so sorry to hear of this. It is all this horrible bridge. I always seem lucky, but such a lot of my friends have bad luck. I think I shall give up these parties, if they are going to embarrass the people I like.”
There was a soft mist in her eyes, as she gave utterance to these noble sentiments. Guy felt a little thrill pass through him. She was not a mere worldling, she had her full share of real kindness, of real womanliness.
“One’s own fault, you know,” he answered lightly. “I suppose I ought to be old enough to take care of myself. I needn’t play bridge if I don’t want to, need I?”
Mrs Hargrave did not answer for a moment. She seemed struggling with her remorseful thoughts. Then, after a brief space, inspiration came to her, and she played a strong and winning card.
She laid her hand upon his arm, and her voice trembled ever so little as she spoke.
“Mr Rossett, we have been very good friends, have we not? And you were a pal of dear old Jack’s long before I met him.”
Rossett nodded. At the moment he had no idea what she was driving at, or what she was leading up to. And he was pretty quick too.
“Then I want you, for the moment, to think of me as a pal. Fancy for the time I am Jack, your old friend. What I want to say is this, don’t go to these horrible people. They are sure to rook you. I have a little money put by – dear old Jack left me comfortably off – and I make quite a small income out of my winnings. Let me